He went on to say he had every reason to believe that Saddam was, once again, developing a nuclear weapon, and Tel Aviv and Haifa still had to be the first candidates for any warhead.
“Try not to forget, Mr. Secretary, that we’ve already had to take out their nuclear reactors once in the past decade,” the Prime Minister said. “And if necessary, we’ll do so again.”
Christopher nodded, but made no comment.
“And were the Iraqis to succeed in developing a nuclear weapon,” continued Rabin, “no amount of compensation or sympathy would help us this time. And I’m not willing to risk the consequences of that happening to the Israeli people while I’m Prime Minister.”
Christopher still offered no opinion.
“For over two years since the Gulf War ended, we have waited for the downfall of Saddam Hussein, either at the hands of his own people or, at least, by some outside influence encouraged by you. As each month goes by, the Israeli people are increasingly wondering if Operation Desert Storm was ever a victory in the first place.”
Christopher still didn’t interrupt the Israeli Prime Minister’s flow.
“The Israeli Government feels it has waited long enough for others to finish the job.” He paused to allow the implications of his statement to sink in. “We have therefore prepared a plan to assassinate Saddam Hussein. We have at last discovered a way of breaching Saddam’s security and even possibly of being invited into his bunker. Even so, this will still be a more difficult operation than those which led to the capture of Eichmann and the rescue of hostages at Entebbe.”
The Secretary of State looked up. “And are you willing to share this knowledge with us?” he asked quietly.
Scott knew what the reply would be even before the Prime Minister spoke, and so, he suspected, did Christopher.
“No, sir, I am not,” replied Rabin, looking down at the page in front of him. “The only purpose of my statement is to ensure we do not clash with your colleagues from the CIA, since we have information which suggests that they are currently considering such a plan themselves.”
Dexter Hutchins thumped his knee with a clenched fist. Scott hastily wrote a two-word note and passed it across to Susan. She removed her glasses, read the message and looked back at him. Scott nodded firmly, so she once again leaned forward and placed the note in front of the Secretary of State. He glanced at Scott’s words, and this time he reacted immediately.
“We have no such plan,” said Christopher. “I can assure you, Prime Minister, that your information is not correct.” Rabin looked surprised. “And may I add that we naturally hope you will not consider any such action yourselves without keeping President Clinton fully informed.”
It was the first time the President’s name had been brought into play, and Scott admired the way the Secretary of State had applied pressure without any suggestion of a threat.
“I hear your request,” replied the Prime Minister, “but I must tell you, sir, that if Saddam is allowed to continue developing his nuclear arsenal, I cannot expect my people to sit by and watch.”
Christopher had reached the compromise he needed, and perhaps even gained a little time. For the next twenty minutes the Secretary of State tried to steer the conversation onto more friendly territory, but everyone in that room knew that once their guests had departed only one subject would come under discussion.
When the meeting was concluded the Secretary instructed his own staff to wait in the conference room while he accompanied the Prime Minister to his limousine. He returned a few minutes later with only one question for Scott.
“How can you be so sure Rabin was bluffing when he suggested we were also preparing a plan to eliminate Saddam? I watched his eyes and he gave away nothing,” said Christopher.
“I agree, sir,” replied Scott. “But it was the one sentence he delivered in two hours that he read word for word. I don’t even think he had written it himself. Some adviser had prepared the statement. And, more important, Rabin didn’t believe it.”
“Do you believe the Israelis have a plan to assassinate Saddam Hussein?”
“Yes, I do,” said Scott. “And what’s more, despite what Rabin says about restraining his people, I suspect it was his idea in the first place. I think he knows every detail, including the likely date and place.”
“Do you have any theories on how they might go about it?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” replied Scott.
Christopher turned to Susan. “I want to meet with Ed Djerijian and his senior Mideastern people in my office in one hour, and I must see the President before he departs for Houston.”
Christopher turned to leave, but as he reached the door, he glanced back. “Thank you, Scott. I’m glad you were able to get away from Yale. It looks as if we’re going to be seeing a lot more of you over the next few weeks.” The Secretary of State disappeared out of the room.
“May I add my thanks, too,” said Susan as she gathered up her papers and scurried after her boss.
“My pleasure,” said Scott, before adding, “Care to join me for dinner tonight? Jockey Club, eight o’clock?”
Susan stopped in her tracks. “You must do your research more thoroughly, Professor Bradley. I’ve been living with the same man for the past six years and—”
“—and I heard it wasn’t going that well lately,” interjected Scott. “In any case, he’s away at a conference in Seattle, isn’t he?”
She scribbled a note and passed it over to Dexter Hutchins. Dexter read the two words and laughed before passing it on to Scott: “He’s bluffing.”
When the two of them had been left alone, Dexter Hutchins also had one question that he needed answered.
“How could you be so sure that we aren’t planning to take Saddam out?”
“I’m not,” admitted Scott. “But I am certain that the Israelis don’t have any information to suggest we are.”
Dexter smiled and said, “Thanks for coming down from Connecticut, Scott. I’ll be in touch. I’ve got a hunch the plane to Washington is going to feel like a shuttle for you over the next few months.” Scott nodded, relieved that the term was just about to end and no one would expect to see him around for several weeks.
Scott took a cab back to the Ritz Carlton, returned to his room and began to pack his overnight case. During the past year he’d considered a hundred ways that the Israelis might plan to assassinate Saddam Hussein, but all of them had flaws because of the massive protection that always surrounded the Iraqi President wherever he went. Scott felt certain also that Prime Minister Rabin would never sanction such an operation unless there was a good chance that his operatives would get home alive. Israel didn’t need that sort of humiliation on top of all its other problems.
Scott flicked on the evening news. The President was heading to Houston to carry out a fund-raiser for Senator Krueger before the special May elections. His plane had been late taking off from Andrews. There was no explanation as to why he was running behind schedule—the new President was quickly gaining a reputation for working by Clinton Standard Time. All the White House correspondent was willing to say was that he had been locked in talks with the Secretary of State. Scott switched off the news and checked his watch. It was a little after seven, and his flight wasn’t scheduled until 9:40. Just enough time to grab a bite before he left for the airport. He’d only been offered sandwiches and a glass of milk all day, and figured that the CIA at least owed him a decent meal.
Scott went downstairs to the Jockey Club and was taken to a seat in the corner. A noisy congressman was telling a blonde half his age that the President had been locked in a meeting with Warren Christopher because “they were discussing my amendment to the defense budget.” The blonde looked suitably impressed, even if the maître d’ didn’t.
Scott ordered the smoked salmon, a sirloin steak and a half bottle of Mouton Cadet before once again going over everything the Israeli Prime Minister had said at the meeting. But he concluded that the shrewd politician h
ad given no clues as to how or when—or even whether—the Israelis would carry out their threat.
On the recommendation of the maître d’, he agreed to try the house special, a chocolate soufflé. He convinced himself that he wasn’t going to be fed like this again for some time and, in any case, he could work it off in the gym the next day. When he had finished the last mouthful, Scott checked his watch: three minutes past eight—just enough time for coffee before grabbing a taxi to the airport.
Scott decided against a second cup, raised his hand and scribbled in the air to indicate that he’d like the check. When the maître d’ returned, he had his MasterCard ready.
“Your guest has just arrived,” said the maître d’, without indicating the slightest surprise.
“My guest…?” began Scott.
“Hello, Scott. I’m sorry I’m a little late, but the President just went on and on asking questions.”
Scott stood up and slipped his MasterCard back into his pocket before kissing Susan on the cheek.
“You did say eight o’clock, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, I did,” said Scott, as if he had simply been waiting for her.
The maître d’ reappeared with two large menus and handed them to her customers.
“I can recommend the smoked salmon and the steak,” she said without even a flicker of a smile.
“No, that sounds a bit too much for me,” said Susan. “But don’t let me stop you, Scott.”
“No, President Clinton’s not the only one dieting,” said Scott. “The consommé and the house salad will suit me just fine.” Scott looked at Susan as she studied the menu, her glasses propped on the end of her nose. She had changed from her well-cut dark blue suit into a calf-length pink dress that emphasized her slim figure even more. Her blonde hair now fell loosely onto her shoulders and for the first time in his memory she was wearing lipstick. She looked up and smiled.
“I’ll have the crab cakes,” she told the maître d’.
“What did the President have to say?” asked Scott, as if they were still in a State Department briefing.
“Not a lot,” she said, lowering her voice. “Except that if Saddam were to be assassinated he feels that he would automatically become the Iraqis’ number one target.”
“A human enough response,” suggested Scott.
“Let’s not talk politics,” said Susan. “Let’s talk about more interesting things. Why do you feel Ciseri is underestimated and Bellini overestimated?” she inquired. Scott realized Susan must have also read his internal file from cover to cover.
“So that’s why you came. You’re an art freak.”
For the next hour they discussed Bellini, Ciseri, Caravaggio, Florence and Venice, which kept them fully occupied until the maître d’ reappeared by their side.
She recommended the chocolate soufflé, and seemed disappointed that they both rejected the suggestion.
Over coffee, Scott told his guest about his life at Yale, and Susan admitted that she sometimes regretted she had not taken up an offer to teach at Stanford.
“One of the five universities you’ve honored with your scholarship.”
“But never Yale, Professor Bradley,” she said before folding her napkin. Scott smiled. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she added as the maître d’ returned with the check.
Scott signed it quickly, hoping she couldn’t see, and that the CIA accounts department wouldn’t query why it was a bill for three people.
When Susan went to the ladies’ room Scott checked his watch: 10:25. The last plane had taken off nearly an hour before. He walked down to the front desk and asked if they could book him in for another night. The receptionist pressed a few keys on the computer, studied the result and said, “Yes, that will be fine, Professor Bradley. Continental breakfast at seven and the Washington Post as usual?”
“Thank you,” he said as Susan reappeared by his side.
She linked her arm in his as they walked towards the taxis parked in the cobblestone driveway. The doorman opened the back door of the first taxi as Scott once again kissed Susan on the cheek.
“See you soon, I hope.”
“That will depend on the Secretary of State,” said Susan with a grin as she stepped into the back of the taxi. The doorman closed the door behind her and Scott waved as the car disappeared down Massachusetts Avenue.
Scott took a deep breath of Washington air and felt that after two meals a walk around the block wouldn’t do him any harm. His mind switched constantly between Saddam and Susan, neither of whom he felt he had the full measure of.
He strolled back into the Ritz Carlton about twenty minutes later, but before going up to his room he returned to the restaurant and handed the maître d’ a twenty-dollar bill.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I hope you enjoyed both meals.”
“If you ever need a day job,” Scott said, “I know an outfit in Virginia that could make good use of your particular talents.” The maître d’ bowed. Scott left the restaurant, took the elevator to the fifth floor and strolled down the corridor to room 505.
When he removed his key from the lock and pushed the door open he was surprised to find he’d left a light on. He took his jacket off and walked down the short passageway into the bedroom. He stopped and stared at the sight that met him. Susan was sitting up in bed in a rather sheer negligee, reading his notes on the afternoon’s meeting, her glasses propped on the end of her nose. She looked up and gave Scott a disarming smile.
“The Secretary of State told me that I was to find out as much as I possibly could about you before our next meeting.”
“When’s your next meeting?”
“Tomorrow morning, nine sharp.”
Chapter Eight
Button Gwinnett was proving to be a problem. The writing was spidery and small, and the “G” sloped forward. It was several hours before Dollar Bill was willing to transfer the signature onto the two remaining parchments. In the days that followed, he used fifty-six different shades of ink and subtle changes of pressure on the dozen nibs he tried out before he felt happy with Lewis Morris, Abraham Clark, Richard Stockton and Caesar Rodney. But he felt his masterpiece was undoubtedly John Hancock, in size, accuracy, shade and pressure.
The Irishman completed two copies of the Declaration of Independence forty-eight days after he had accepted a drink from Angelo Santini at a downtown bar in San Francisco.
“One is a perfect copy,” he told Angelo, “while the other has a tiny flaw.”
Angelo stood looking at the two documents in amazement, unable to think of the words that would adequately express his admiration.
“When William J. Stone was asked to make a copy back in 1820, it took him nearly three years,” said Dollar Bill. “And, more important, he had the blessing of Congress.”
“Are you going to tell me the one difference between the final copy you’ve chosen and the original?”
“No, but I will tell you it was William J. Stone who pointed me in the right direction.”
“So what’s next?” asked Angelo.
“Patience,” said the craftsman, “because our little soufflé needs time to rise.”
Angelo watched as Dollar Bill transferred the two parchments carefully onto a table in the center of the room where he had rigged up a water-cooled Xenon lamp. “This gives out a light similar to daylight, but of much greater intensity,” he explained. He flicked the switch on and the room lit up like a television studio. “If I’ve got my calculations right,” said Bill, “that should achieve in thirty hours what nature took over two hundred years to do for the original.” He smiled. “Certainly enough time to get drunk.”
“Not yet,” said Angelo, hesitating. “Mr. Cavalli has one more request.”
“And what might that be?” asked Dollar Bill in his warm Irish brogue.
He listened to Mr. Cavalli’s latest whim with interest. “I feel I ought to be paid double under the circumstances,” was the forger’s only respo
nse.
“Mr. Cavalli has agreed to pay you another ten thousand,” said Angelo.
Dollar Bill looked down at the two copies, shrugged his shoulders and nodded.
Thirty-six hours later, the chairman and the chief executive of Skills boarded a shuttle for Washington.
They had two assessments to make before flying back to New York. If both proved positive, they could then arrange a meeting of the executive team they hoped would carry out the contract.
If, however, they came away unconvinced, Cavalli would return to Wall Street and make two phone calls. One to Mr. Al Obaydi, explaining why it would be impossible to fulfill his request, and the second to their contact in Lebanon to tell him that they could not deal with a man who had demanded that ten percent of the money be lodged in a Swiss bank account in his name. Cavalli would even supply the number of the account they had opened in Al Obaydi’s name in Geneva, and thus the blame for failure would be shifted from the Cavallis to the Deputy Ambassador from Iraq.
When the two men stepped out of the main terminal, a car was waiting to ferry them into Washington. Crossing the 14th Street Bridge they proceeded east on Constitution Avenue where they were dropped outside the National Gallery, a building that neither of them had ever visited before.
Once inside the East Wing, they took a seat on a little bench against the wall just below the vast Calder mobile and waited.
It was the clapping that first attracted their attention. When they looked up to see what was causing the commotion, they watched as flocks of tourists quickly stood to one side, trying to make a clearing.
When they saw him for the first time, the Cavallis automatically stood. A group of bodyguards, two of whom Antonio recognized, was leading the man through a human passage while he shook hands with as many people as possible.
The chairman and the chief executive took a few paces forward to get a better view of what was taking place. It was remarkable: the broad smile, the gait and walk, even the same turn of the head. When he stopped in front of them and bent down to speak to a little boy for a moment they might, if they hadn’t known the truth, have believed it themselves.
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